


scars left by days forgotten

by millieisnotanidiot



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Emotional Sherlock Holmes, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millieisnotanidiot/pseuds/millieisnotanidiot
Summary: When a drunken kiss that exposes more than they were ready for, can John fix the mistake he never meant to make before it's too late?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	scars left by days forgotten

The evening had started off spectacularly, really. They'd gone out for dinner after solving yet another case, and Sherlock had been buzzing with excitement. It had been a few weeks since Sherrinford,and both of them were still processing from the recent events. In hindsight, John wished now he had realised how fragile Sherlock still was.

It had seemed natural to hold Sherlock's hand in their booth in Angelo's while they drank together, and John felt like he was glowing. They had tumbled outside together, giggling like madmen, separating only so they could lean against a wall to catch their breath. It felt like they were going to feel this way for months.

And then, two thirds of the way to Baker Street, the evening had soured. Sherlock had drunkenly leaned in and kissed John. Who, idiot that he was, pulled back to say "Hold on, I don't want to be drunk for this-" except that Sherlock's was already gone, coat billowing behind him.

John was left blinking, unsure how much his friend had heard, or if it would have mattered. After a minute he pulled himself together enough to walk to the corner of the block to see if any hint of Sherlock was still there, but all was quiet.

So, as you would, John staggered back to his flat, sat down and put some crap telly on, and wondered what the fuck had happened. Once the alcohol-induced haze had lessened slightly, John tried calling Sherlock. No answer. And no answer again. He contemplated heading round to Baker Street right away, but what if that made it worse? John decided that it was a decision best made later.

*****

It was an hour later when John awoke suddenly, a wake of panic jolting through him. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to over the years, so much so that it had become instinctual, and it meant without a doubt that Sherlock was in danger. 

A few hastily made phone calls to the cab service and very surprised taxi driver got him to 221b in minutes - far faster than any London taxi he'd ever experienced before. 

Not stopping to knock, John grabbed the keys that he had never gotten round to giving back and shoved them in the lock, undoubtedly waking half the street in his haste. As soon as he managed to barge his way in, he checked all of the rooms in a flurry of panic, and automatically headed to the bathroom. He could almost hear Sherlock screaming, even though the flat was morbidly quiet.

John's heart stopped when he wrenched open the bathroom door. Sherlock was sprawled in the bathtub, limbs slack. His mind was coming up with irrelevancies, pointing out stupid details, trying to distract him from the sight of his best friend wallowing in what was evidently a pool of his own diluted blood.

After an agonizing few seconds, the doctor in John finally kicked in, shoving away the shock that had set in and crossed his way to the tub. Sherlock was unconscious, and had clearly lost a lot of blood. Steeling himself, he plunged his hands into the dark red water (this felt wrong, so, so wrong) and grabbed his wrists, silently praying for some deity to help him.

John managed to haul Sherlock's upper body out if the tub (the smart bastard new the water would stop his blood from clotting), before he collapsed into a pile of exhaustion. He hadn't noticed how much this was taking out of him, but he knew he needed his energy for when Sherlock came around, to talk to him, to make sure it never happened again. Steadying himself against the tub, he managed to grab the rest of Sherlock's body out of the bath, and drag him through the adjoining door to his room. 

John let out a single sob, before sternly telling himself that it was not the time. Facing the bed, he examined Sherlock more carefully this time. There were three or four deep gouges running down both Sherlock's forearms, and dark blood was still trickling down, leaving stains on marble skin. 

A litany of scars were also to be found on Sherlock's body. Cigarette scars up his sides, whip marks on his back, knife wounds and gun shots adorned his chest, and what looked like countless self-inflicted wounds across his stomach and thighs. John paled at the sight of them.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done now...?" John whispered, looking down at his hands, cuffs soaked with reddened water.

On another note, John had never been inside Sherlock's room, and he had an obnoxiously large bed. John had deposited Sherlock on one side, and carefully lay down on the other, after grabbing a med kit that he still kept under the sink to patch up his wrists. 

He gently lay a hand down on Sherlock's forehead - he could feel faint breath against his arm, but no response to touch. So, he had to wait. Sherlock would come back to him. He had to.

*****

John felt a wave of gratefulness for his army training, as it was allowing him to stay awake to watch Sherlock. He kept watch over him all night, grasping a cold hand in his, and monitored himself too, for signs of his strength coming back. At least Sherlock's arm had stopped bleeding.

In the end, Sherlock woe before John could patch him up properly. He shivered, and gave a groan. John placed a hand on his chest to stop the man from getting up.

"Don't, love," the endearment slipping out unintentionally, "you've lost too much blood. Let me take care of you,"

"John...?" Sherlock sounded even weaker than he looked.

"Yes, love. I'm here. Please let me take care of you." 

Sherlock was apparently too weak to do anything else. He closed his eyes, and moaned quietly. John stroked his cheek until he dropped off again.

Reassured just a little, John began to plan. First, let Sherlock get some rest. Help his wounds heal as fast as possible. Then move back in right away, there was no way he could let this happen again. Hide all sharp things (John shuddered at the thought). Get some food down his best friend's throat, and then... talk.

*****

Letting Sherlock rest was the easy part. When he awoke to the sight of John touching his mutilated arms to bandage them up, the man jerked his arms away with a cry of pain.

"Don't."

"Sherlock, love, I have to,"

"You can't! I'm not done with them yet." 

At this, John let out a small gasp. "Please - you can't - you can't leave me. Please don't leave me, not again." It wasn't what he intended to say, he knew that laying guilt on top of a person's suffering was counterproductive, but it was Sherlock, and he couldn't bear the idea of losing him again.

Sherlock muttered, "What's it to you?", and John carefully took his friends face in his hands. 

"I- I really did not want it to be this way, but... I love you, Sherlock," he whispered, planting a soft kiss on his lips.

"No!"

Sherlock looked disgusted at himself. "You don't love me, you pity me. Poor old sociopath that's never had a real friend, perfect candidate for my healer complex,"

"Sherlock, please - I really do love you, and i think i always have. If you could see yourself like I do... I love you so much, you insane man."

Sherlock scoffed, "Yeah, it really showed when you got married to another woman."

John took a gulp of air, ready to starts full argument, until he remembered that Sherlock was vulnerable, which means that Sherlock will lash out. The last thing he needs is a row.

It seemed like Sherlock was crying again. Putting the jabs behind him, he began to stroke Sherlock's cheek again. 

The next time Sherlock spoke, it was barely a whisper. "If you like, you can do my wrists. As long as I can have one more kiss - I would rather like to make this one work, if you're amenable, of course."

John chuckled slightly at the wording, but nodded all the same. He gently took hold of the sides of Sherlock's face, and angled his head so that he could bend down and press his lips against the injured man's below him.

After only a few seconds, he pulled away, conscious of the rate of the risk of infection setting in was getting worse, gave Sherlock one more kiss for good luck, and set about patching him up.

"How'd you feel?"

"Fucking awful, thanks for asking," Even in injury Sherlock managed to be snarky.

"Do you think you can rest for a while."

Sherlock nodded.

"Then I'll see you in a few hours."

And with a gentle smile, he turned out the lights.

*****

Back in the living room of 221b, seemingly an eternity later, Sherlock and John were bickering once again.

"Sherlock, love, for the last bloody time, you need to eat," he cried, knowing it was useless ti even be attempting this argument.

"John, you know I don't eat."

"Yeah, well, you do now, or it'll be no kisses for a week." John said with a smirk.

As it turns out, Sherlock was rather fond of kisses. And as it also turns out, threatening to withhold them seemed to be an effective way of getting him to do something.

Sherlock nodded grimly, admitting defeat.

Making sure to lock the knives away safely, John brought over a sandwhich and a packet of ready salted crisps, and sat there and watched as Sherlock scarfed them.

When Sherlock complained about the flavour of cheese spread, he knew he was getting better. When he started to use his microscope again, he knew he was getting better again. When they started taking cases again, he knew that he was better. Not fully, mind you, but it was good for now.

*****

In order to fully make sure Sherlock was alright, it only made sense that John would move back in. And to make sure nothing happened in the night, it was only sensible to share a bed. And if hugs and kisses were what made Sherlock happier, then that's what he'll get.

To John's relief, Sherlock did start to open up to him more about his mental health over time. There were still bad days and relapses, and days were it was impossible to do anything but scream and cry, but there were also days were nothing could bring him down. Over time they installed safety plans, with the help of Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and Molly. Progress may have been quicker, but a lot of the time was taking up by a lot of insistent kissing.

**Author's Note:**

> alright, i was on the verge of a relapse when i wrote this, and some of it is based on experience, so please don't leave any hate on me for writing on a subject 'i know nothing about'
> 
> anyway, kudos and comments will be greatly appreciated, along with any feedback :)
> 
> -m


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